The Sweet Taste (Perry County)

by Roy F. Chandler

  Lori's in-laws became cold and distant, through some perverse reasoning, blaming her and the child for their son's flight.

  Emotionally traumatized, Lori fought back. Money was essential. To Lori, that meant work. For a pittance, a childhood friend took Lori's infant in with her own. Lori found a job and buckled down to it.

  During the week, Lori clerked in a nearby lumberyard. She found part-time work for Saturday. Lori spent little and struggled at using her few dollars wisely.

  Months after their deaths, Lori collected her parents' life insurance. It was an old ten thousand dollar policy left over from her father's military service. To a young mother, struggling on little more than minimum wages, the insurance was a gift to be cherished.

  Of course there were debts to be settled. The funeral, though simple, dug deeply. Her parents' rent was owed; their service station bill, electricity, water, light, garbage, the usual payments, had piled up.

  A friend of her father's came to her door, embarrassed but determined. The father had owed him a hundred dollars. There was no paper, but Lori knew the man. She thanked him for letting her know and paid in full. Lori had been raised right. She intended living that way.

  House and pet sitting began with the mill owner. The lumberman owned a fine home near his plant. Often away, he worried about robbery and vandals. By occupying the home at night, Lori made extra money. Soon she added house cleaning to her work and found it paid better than her clerk's job.

  Caring for pets in their own homes became best of all. Loving owners who travelled gladly paid kennel fees for Lori to visit the pet in its familiar surroundings. Lori had discovered a real business.

  Lori fed the cats and dogs, birds and fish, kept them clean and, where appropriate, gave them comforting pats and scratches. Owners called from their cruises to exotic isles asking how their pets were doing. Lori's reports erased their fears with certainty that all was well at home. Often there were bonuses.

  The years passed unremarkably. Men called and some were dated. Within a small town in a rural county, opportunities tended to be few, and once stung, Lori Shoop had raised her standards.

  Until Gene Perry returned, none had measured up, or she had not experienced the singular chemistry that kept her interested.

  Lori had to admit that Gene Perry's credentials were not outstanding. His driftings were adventurous, and she enjoyed his telling of them, but a record of wandering did not bode well for settling down and working at something more lasting than collecting excitements.

  Additionally, Gene had made no overt advances. Lori appreciated that. In romance she desired permanence. She sensed a struggle in Gene Perry. She felt him deciding, choosing which way he would turn. If the warm summer months were turning points for Gene, Lori Shoop hoped he would decide that it was time to put down roots and make a home for himself, here where he had grown to manhood.

  Lori believed one thing about Gene Perry. If he made up his mind to become a family man, he would be a good one. Whatever Gene chose to do, he would do well. There was fiber and mental toughness beneath her friend's easy ways.

  To survive the grizzly attack Gene had needed to keep his senses and not give up. When the huge biker had beaten him, he had fought like a tiger, causing the monster to toss him aside. Though thoroughly battered, snake-quick Gene had made it into the river. Even as he had floated, barely beyond the bikers' reach, Lori had seen the cold reasoning in his eyes, judging his strengths and his chances.

  When she thought of the bikers, Lori Shoop laughed inside. When the motorcycles burned at the Bikers' Club, she had known who did it. She knew with an inner, visceral satisfaction that Gene Perry had begun his vengeance. She saw Gene's surprise and instant recovery when Chris asked him if he had burned the bikes. Gene had changed the question to a joke by suggesting that he thought Chris might have done it. Lori noticed that Gene had avoided denying or confirming.

  Lori did not intend to ask him about the bike burning, at least not until the situation between them was far closer. Gene Perry would not wish to involve her in his troubles. Lori would not make him squirm.

  Of course, Chris doted on Gene. The trip to Alaska had further bonded them. If Lori had announced that Gene Perry was to be his new father, Chris Shoop would have been as happy as they.

  A boy needed a man to learn from. Lori did not doubt that. Gene would be a fine role model, except perhaps for the example of youthful roving. On the other hand, wasn't it better for a man to see the strange places and do the wilder things before he married and created children? If a man had to roam, and many believed they did, delaying marriage was the better choice.

  Which again circled to whether the wanderer had seen and done enough. Until Gene Perry declared himself, Lori Shoop would remain his friend, enjoy his company, and wonder—perhaps wistfully—if it were to be.

  +++

  Chapter 9 - CHRIS

  Among his middle school peers, Chris Shoop gained status. Going to Alaska and seeing bears rates high with Perry County males of all ages.

  Perry Countians are hunters. When the deer season comes in, schools close and businesses use skeleton crews. Conversations begin with the obligatory question: "Get your buck yet?" Guns and gear are serious investments, and it is estimated that the citizenry averages three or four guns per resident—including children.

  To see Alaska, where the great animals roam, is a common Perry County dream. Sons are invested with fathers' and uncles' values, including their dreams. For most hunters, to hunt Alaska, to live woodsy with guides and primitive camps, approaches nirvana. Alaska lies not far from heaven's welcoming gates, and anyone who has been there is envied.

  Until Alaska, Chris Shoop had never hunted. His only firsthand gun knowledge came from plinking with a .22 under his mother's watchful eye. Some of his friends had already taken deer. Many spoke familiarly of 12 gauges, bolt actions, and Weatherby magnums. Chris was not part of those rich and manly conversations.

  Then, like lightning, Chris Shoop knew all about that stuff. Man, old Chris had been to ALASKA. He had lived right out there with real Alaskan guides. Chris had shot ptarmigan. Wow, what a word!

  Chris had absorbed the casual Alaskan conversations. Everything stuck. He knew things that he understood little about. A .44 Magnum's best load was 22 grains of 2400 powder, pushing a 240 grain Keith type bullet. He dazzled compatriots with that one.

  Had Chris ever fired a .44 Magnum? Oh yes, he and Gene popped a few caps up along the Wareman Glacier—IN ALASKA. None of the guys could top that kind of a story.

  Most of Chris's new stuff came from Gene Perry. The boy had never sailed, but words like jib and mains'l were familiar, and he used them. The Florida Keys now meant something, as did the Kenai and Valdez.

  Gene Perry spoke with Chris Shoop as though he were grown up. If Chris didn't understand something, Gene took the time to explain.

  "The way a sluice gets gold is by dumping in ground with color in it. Color means gold traces, Chris. A sluice is a long wooden trough with ridges across the bottom. You pour water in and it washes the dirt out, leaving rocks and heavy stuff. Gold is heaviest of all, so it settles to the bottom. The gold gets trapped behind the ridges and the miner takes it out carefully."

  "Gee, how much gold do they get, Gene?"

  "I know places that average out nearly an ounce a day. At going prices, that could be worth three hundred and fifty dollars."

  "Wow, let's go up there and sluice gold."

  "Well, the best claims are taken, and it's brutal work, Chris. It cost so much to live up there, the profit isn't as big as it sounds. Want to see some gold dust I panned up on Riley Creek?"

  Of course he did.

  Chris knew his mother liked Gene Perry. There was no question that Gene liked his mom. With his attention focused on Perry, Chris could not miss the changes in tone and expressions that gave it away. But nothing seemed to happen. His mother did not spruce up and go out on dates with Gene. Chris didn't see them kissing or even
hugging.

  His mind played with how it would be if his mom married Gene. There were nervous fears that he might be ordered around a lot, and he knew from Gene's occasional presence that he would lose a lot of his mother's attention. Of course, that had its good side sometimes.

  Gene already bossed him. He did it in nice ways, but it was still bossing. Like the time Gene told him to quit throwing things into the well. Chris supposed the storytelling was worth the correcting, and he never dropped things in again.

  Gene came across the yard to lean over the well wall and join him looking into the well's dark tunnel.

  "When I was a boy, I climbed down these rocks until I got to water level. It took me a couple of tries before I learned the best places to step and grab. After that it was easy.

  "Right at the waterline I found a hollow that would just hold me. That was one of my secret hideouts, until I got too old and tried other things."

  They looked into the dark together, thinking about it. Then Gene went on.

  "You can tell how deep the water is by letting down the bucket and measuring the wet on the well rope. Back then, I took a stick down with me and measured it right. The water was about three feet deep. It's probably still about the same."

  "Men dug wells like this with a pick and shovel. They shored up the edges with planks and the dirt was hauled out on a rope. We call the rigging a block and tackle now, but in the old days, they said block and fall. I don't know why."

  "After they got the well dug, with a good water pool at the bottom, they laid stone wall right to the surface. Then they had to clean all the rock chips and other junk out of the water basin."

  "If a man wants to have a good well, he might still have to go down once in a while to keep the pool opened up. Work went into a well, and handy drinking water was so important, it got to be recognized as wrong to risk contaminating the water. That's why you shouldn't ever drop anything into a well, even a penny for luck."

  Chris knew he was being told to quit dropping rocks down, but he couldn't have been informed any easier. Gene was good about doing it that way.

  Gene Perry didn't seem to have much. His cabin wasn't worth as much as a real house, although Chris liked it better. If Gene and his mom ever did marry, he wasn't sure what they would live on. Chris supposed Gene would get a job, like everybody else had. So far, Gene hadn't shown any interest in it though.

  Gene had money coming in from Alaska. Chris couldn't guess how much or what it was from, but Red Harston's bunch had kidded Gene about it more than once.

  Chris wondered if maybe they shouldn't all go up to Alaska and mine gold. He'd bet anything that lots of those streams they had crossed would show color. They could each get one of the little gas operated dredges that you could use just like a vacuum cleaner. Gene knew all about them.

  Those dredges just sucked the gold out of the deep cracks where it liked to settle.

  A little figuring showed that each of them should find an ounce a day. That would come to over one thousand dollars each day. Holy cow, if they worked hard, they could be done by hunting season and be back in Perry County before freeze up. He would probably have to come home early for school, but even that wouldn't be too bad.

  Chris imagined himself tanned, muscular from gold digging, with a few bear claws on a necklace, and maybe a big nugget on a ring. He thought he might wear a Crocodile Dundee kind of hat and good heavy leather hunting boots with cleated soles. He wished he could get away with wearing a sheathed hunting knife. Man, nobody would beat that.

  Chris guessed it was just dreaming, but Gene said it was good for a man to daydream. He told how he explored places in his mind, and sometimes he built cabins, or maybe an earth dam to help beavers flood a meadow. The only thing was, Gene pointed out, a man had to know when to dream and when to get down to business. School, in particular, wasn't dreaming time. No matter if it was easiest then.

  Most often, Chris figured nothing was going to happen between his mom and Gene Perry. A whole summer had gone by. A whole summer. Chris wondered how free time could slip by so fast while school days dragged like weeks.

  Sure as shooting his mother would marry someone sooner or later. Once, Chris had hoped she would marry a big league ball player. Later, he preferred that it be someone real rich who had a swimming pool and horses.

  When he looked around, he realized there weren't any men like that just standing around.

  When he got to measuring the men he knew, married or not, Chris got more than a little anxious. He didn't see a one that he wanted moving in with them.

  Measured that way, Gene Perry seemed even more acceptable.

  He wished Gene would get moving, maybe even send his mom a box of candy or something.

  +++

  Chapter 10

  Early September was pistol hot with days to make dog tongues drip. My morning jogs were sweat-soaked slogs, unpleasant and only dutifully completed.

  Restlessness taunted my thoughts. Yet, my wish was not to depart for exotic climes. Rather, it was a hunger to get started on what I increasingly longed to tackle.

  I paced off distances, visualizing an expanded cabin, one more fit for family living. I jotted lumber estimates and roofing requirements. What would Lori like? What impertinence. So far I had barely held her hand.

  The trick would be to change the cabin into a home without ripping up the clearing and destroying the natural beauty that made the spot desirable.

  We would need two additional bedrooms and another bath. There ought to be a family room and certainly some big closets. The additions could be to the rear, where they wouldn't show.

  A two car garage could be attached, close to the kitchen—which would need enlargement and modernizing. What kind of central heating should we have, and where should it be placed?

  There were other considerations picking at my mind. Had there been changes in school areas? Would Chris go to Susquenita, as I had, or would our area now attend Newport, or, within the crazily organized school patchwork, even Greenwood? How would that sit with Chris and his mother?

  The speculations were many, but until I completed a prior commitment, they were also premature.

  My score with Jello Gorse had to be settled and out of my mind. Jello was baggage I could not take into a family.

  Sweet had been the taste of my first revenge. Take that, my emotions had snarled at the bikers. I wanted the same sensation when I beat the snot out of Jello. Yet, how that was to be done escaped me entirely.

  Jogging was a good time for thinking and planning. When sweat ran free and legs were strong in their rhythm, ideas came easily, as though the rush of blood opened new channels and widened others. A thousand schemes for doing in Jello Gorse rose. All failed the test of practicality.

  I never seriously considered blowing him from the saddle with a 12 gauge or sniping Gorse from long range with a scoped deer rifle. I could enjoy imagining stretching a neck high piano wire across Jello's path, but I could not act on such a deed. There was no way I could feel proud of, or satisfied with, a murder.

  I needed to take Jello Gorse man to man and face to face. To do that, I needed an unfair advantage, and I couldn't find one.

  Gorse's monstrous size and brutal power were as intimidating as anything I could imagine. Could I grind Hulk Hogan into submission? The idea was ludicrous. Jello Gorse, I suspected would hold his own with Hogan or any other I could name.

  My thoughts turned often to the Bikers' Club building. Might there be something there that would give me leverage? Could I lie in ambush within the building or on the grounds and nail Gorse when he was drunk or drugged up? I had never seen Jello in such a condition. Still, it wouldn't hurt to nose around.

  I selected a weekday when the clubhouse would probably be unused. I parked and watched from a distance. No motorcycles or cars were in view. The door and windows were closed. In the unusual heat, no one would be inside without ventilating the building.

  I left the Datsun and walked along the
road edge, much as I had the night I burned the bikes. Tar residue still marked where cycles had melted down.

  The clubhouse door looked solid. I twisted the knob and shoved against it. There was no give at all. I imagined a heavy drop bar socketed in place. Apparently, the clubhouse was first entered through a back door. A virtually impenetrable growth of briars wrapped most of the fence closing the backyard. I hoped for an easier way in. I leaned against the yard's wire gate, judging that I could scale it and work my way over the stranded barbed wire above. In so doing, I would be in full view, and if caught inside, explanations would be fruitless.

  The huge padlock fastened the gate, and I almost didn't look. When I did, my heart gave a bump. The lock had not been clicked. It hung there, needing only a twist and removal. The gods, it appeared, were with me.

  Could it be a trap? Come on, my common sense demanded. No one could know I was coming, and guys like the bikers were not into month long stakeouts, hoping to catch a backyard prowler.

  I lifted the padlock, stepped through, and replaced it. Across the road, and up and down it, no one appeared to be watching.

  The backyard was a genuine disaster area. Junked car pieces mixed with old barrels and torn-apart motorcycles. Assorted canvas covered objects indicated ongoing projects, but most looked unmoved for many months. Trash bags had been broken open by coons and opossums. Piles of beer cans and empty bottles grew fungus-like in random mounds.

  It stunk in there. If the bikers had a toilet, it was apparently often neglected. Garbage added its turgid essence, and I gathered, someone had thrown up somewhere close by.

  If the property came up for sale, I doubted I would bid very high.

  The back door was sealed by a normal sized padlock and a common hardware store hasp. The door's small window had been broken out and was covered with cardboard. I punched my fist through it and looked inside.